Today’s earrings came from my mother. She received them as a gift from a friend who’d taken a trip to Fiji. My mother wore them a few times, but they’re not her style.
My mother, her friend, and I have spent time together, going to Mackinac Island, eating meals together, watching fireworks from a deck on Lake Michigan. So, a few years after my mother received these earrings, she gave them to me.
I haven’t worn them since the pandemic started in 2020. They aren’t wear-with-a-pair-of-blue-jeans-and-a-T-shirt earrings. But today I think I pulled it off. I wore a navy-blue turtleneck, a pale blue sweater and blue jeans. And when I left the house in the afternoon rain, I wore a dark-blue rain jacket with a sophisticated yet subtle tone-on-tone print. The earrings and rain jacket could be soulmates. (If you’re wondering, Anna Wintour never worries when I talk fashion.)
These earrings remind me of a ride in the backseat of a rented midsized sedan from Kohler, Wisconsin, to Milwaukee in July 2010.
I sat in the middle of the backseat because it was my turn to sit in the middle. And because no one cared about my moderate claustrophobia.
As I slid into the center of the seat, I remembered a surgeon’s advice before I had an MRI: “Close your eyes before you enter the tube and don’t open them.”
My mother drove out of the parking lot. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I asked my sister-in-law, who sat to my right, to tell me about her scuba diving trip to Bali.
I asked why she wanted to learn to scuba dive. She has lived in Arizona all her life.
I asked her how she learned. Pools were involved.
I asked her about the dangers. There’s a lot that can go wrong on a dive.
I asked her about the world under the waves.
For fifty miles, a blue-green ocean teaming with exotic fish, coral reefs, and scuba divers screened on my eyelids. For every question I asked, she wove a narrative taking me out of the middle of that backseat. I kept my eyes closed.
These earrings remind me of Fiji, my mother, and her friend.
These earrings remind me of Bali, my sister-in-law, and fifty miles of scuba diving adventures.
I know Fiji is not Bali. My sister-in-law hasn’t met my mother’s friend. These earrings didn’t exist in July 2010.
Doesn’t matter. Neurons forge our networks of memories.
Every time I wear these earrings, I return to my happy place in the waters of Bali among fish and reefs and divers—a place I’ve never been.
I bought these earrings in Tucson, Arizona, in 2003. I went with my husband and sons to visit my mother and stepdad in Phoenix and my father and siblings in Tucson.
These earrings have traveled to Rhode Island, Iowa, Illinois, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Indiana, Hawaii, and Canada. These are hockey earrings. They’ve seen my youngest son play lots of hockey games in many cities. I have a rule about jewelry when I travel—only one pair of earrings and one necklace. These are the earrings that almost always made the cut.
I’ve worn these earrings more than any other pair of earrings I own, so maybe that makes them my favorite pair. As my mother would say, “You can wear them with blue jeans or an evening dress.”
I wore this pair to Winnipeg, Canada, to a hockey tournament. On Saturday morning, I was waiting in the car for my husband to come out of the hotel, so we could head to the rink.
After he got in the car, he said, “Do you feel naked?”
“What?” I hadn’t forgot to put on my pants. (This was long before COVID-19 and pants-less Zoom meetings and endless jokes about people forgetting to wear pants.)
He laughed and asked again, “Do you feel naked?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He extended a closed fist toward me then opened his fingers. Nestled on his palm were my teardrop earrings.
“I thought you might want these, so you didn’t feel naked,” he said.
“Yes, thanks.” I lifted my earrings off his palm and leaned over to kiss him before dressing my bare earlobes.
He had remembered that I had once said I felt naked if I forgot to wear earrings when I left the house.
I almost didn’t write today’s post about earrings. I received my COVID-19 booster yesterday evening at 5:15, and today I had aches, low-grade fevers, and major fatigue. Last March when I had my second shot, I was so tired for two days that even getting out of bed to go to the bathroom was exhausting. Today was better than last time, but I still needed four substantial naps. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to have a serious case of COVID.
I chose today’s earrings this morning but didn’t put them on until 6:15 this evening when I started writing this blog. I can’t wear earrings when I sleep.
Today’s pair are Black Hills Gold, a pink-colored rose encircled by golden leaves. I bought them around 1990 with birthday money my father gave me. Every year he’d send me birthday money, and I’d buy something for myself. I couldn’t tell you what else I bought over the years, but I remember thanking him for these earrings.
My father passed away in September 2016 from a heart attack, but dementia had begun to stalk him. If he were alive, he’d be in a nursing home and probably isolated by surges of COVID.
My dad, me, and my cousin’s baby, May 2005
Yesterday on my way to the vaccine clinic, I listened to a story on public radio about sailors who are stuck on cargo ships that can’t get into port. And when they finally do, the sailors aren’t given shore leave because they aren’t vaccinated. The nightly news reports on hundreds of ships stalled in the ocean, but I haven’t heard them talk about the sailors on the ships.
The public radio journalist interviewed a maritime chaplain who comforts crew members stranded on ships. These people can’t see their families, can’t get off a ship to wire money home, can’t walk down a sidewalk. I’m embarrassed to say, I never thought about the people on those ships. One sailor’s wife is divorcing him because she hasn’t seen him in so long. These sailors don’t have the freedom to get off the ship, and they don’t know when they’re going home. I remembered a history lesson about the impressment of American sailors being one of the causes of the War of 1812. I wonder how little a sailor’s life at sea has changed over the last few hundred years.
When I arrived home, I told my husband, “I can’t believe I never thought about the people on those ships. How could I not think about them?” The focus is always on the cargo.
Today was a difficult day. Feeling lousy makes me feel blue, and I spent the day—when I was awake—close to tears.
But . . .
I’m thankful for my vaccines.
I’m thankful I remember the earrings I bought with birthday money from my father.
I’m thankful public radio aired a story about sailors stuck on ships.
I’m thankful that my biggest worry about COVID is being laid low by a vaccine.
I didn’t take the Caribbean cruise; Sandi, my best friend, did. She bought these abalone shell earrings for me as a gift.
When the rectangles sway, iridescent, pale-green splotches catch light and pulsate across the surface of the earrings, giving the impression they light up from within.
I met Sandi, a paralegal, at a law office where I had taken a summer job. I had dreams of switching careers and becoming a paralegal. Eventually, I decided against the career change, but my friendship with Sandi lasted until she passed away fourteen years later.
The lawyer, who gave me a tour of the office on my first day, introduced me to Sandi, and told her I taught English. Her first words to me were, “I might as well tell you right now, I don’t understand that possessive apostrophe stuff.”
My first words to her were, “I struggle with affect and effect and avoid using either word. And I have to look up how to use lay or lie every time.”
Sandi and me, July 2017
We both laughed. My first thoughts were “I like this person, and we’re going to be good friends.”
There was so much coded in our first exchange of words: We wouldn’t lead with our egos; we’d help each other when needed; humor would prevail. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
These earrings symbolize Sandi’s character. She pulsated kindness and humor and strength, which lit up from inside her.
Today jewel-toned crystals of violet-purple, blue-green, and fuchsia-pink wrapped in faux-gold trim dangle from my earlobes.
In the 1990s, I wore these earrings with brightly colored clothes of purple, blue, and green. They complimented my hair, which was long and permed and dark-strawberry blond.
I’m not sure when I last wore them, but it’s been years. I stopped having my hair permed, my skirts got longer, and my earrings got shorter and less flashy. (Now, my hair is more gray than strawberry.)
I had other long, dangly earrings but a few weeks ago I gave them away because I didn’t wear them. Relics of my younger days, I tried to put these earrings in the give-away bag too, but I couldn’t. They’re beautiful, and I can picture the outfits they accessorized. I bought them to wear with a jade-green dress that ended in a swirling skirt. Some memories need a tangible object. I returned them to my jewelry box.
So, this morning I selected these earrings, chose a purple shirt, and twisted my long hair up in a clip. Today, I’m going to McDonald’s and the library—my earlobes are overdressed.
These earrings are probably out of style. But the reason I don’t wear them is because to me they feel too youthful. Fashion is regulated to age groups. Over the years I’ve heard women criticized for dressing too young for their age. Or too dowdy before their time. I’ve internalized many of those voices. And while I don’t think anyone is going to pass judgment on my earrings—unless I accessorize them with a miniskirt and tube top—the fashion-guru voice in my head says, Those earrings aren’t rockin’ it.
But I’m wearing them because they’re today’s story.
I saving them because they might be fashionable when I’m eighty.
I had picked out a pair of small, thick gold hoops with a smooth surface.
The jeweler at our local mall knew what I wanted, so my husband picked them up and paid for them. Wrapped in shiny silver paper and a white bow, my husband presented them to me. Surprise! What nice earrings! Thank you!
The real surprise, however, came when I tried on the earrings. The thin wire threaded through my pierced ear with ease. Next, the wire was supposed to slip into a small hollow opening at the back end of the hoop. I tried for five minutes to get the slender wire into the opening and failed because I could not see behind my ear. Trying to use a mirror was hopeless.
“I can’t wear these,” I told my husband. “I can’t get them closed.”
I took them back to the jeweler, who said I could exchange them for another pair of earrings. So, instead of the sleek, smooth finished hoops I had liked, my second-choice earrings had a hammered finish I did not like. In addition, they were more expensive, although still in our budget.
My husband razzed me about pulling a bait and switch, so I could get a more expensive pair of earrings. I protested and explained again about not being able to close the first pair. “I’m kidding,” he said. I did not tell him that I did not like the second pair as much as the first pair. After all, they were a gift from him.
My husband and I have been married for thirty-six years, and I’ve had these earrings about that long. They are a pair of go-to earrings—the kind I can wear with any outfit. I have come to like them much better than the first pair I chose.
I love earrings. Before the pandemic began, I wore them almost every day. But I stopped going to work during the pandemic, so I stopped wearing earrings every day. Sometimes days or weeks went by without giving them a thought.
But occasionally earrings gave me a nudge because it would suddenly occur to me that I’d better wear a pair before the holes in my ears closed up. More than once, I had a tough time pushing a hoop or post into the hole in my ear. I’ve always worn small lightweight earrings, so I have tiny holes in my ears.
This morning I put on earrings because I wanted to forget about the ups and downs of COVID-19.
I’ve decided to wear a different pair of earrings for thirty days, and tell a story about each pair. I’m not sure I have thirty pairs. (I’m very particular about my earrings.) But if I don’t, I’ll re-wear a pair. And that’s okay because some of my earrings have more than one story.
Day 1—Earrings from Coronado Island, California
I bought these gold-toned earrings with aquamarine-blue crystals on Coronado Island from a boutique jewelry shop owned by the artist who created them. I was drawn to this exquisite pair because my birthstone is aquamarine.
A couple of years after I bought them, I lost one. I wasn’t wearing the clear rubber backings, and the earring slipped out of my ear without me feeling it or hearing it. I still imagine its voiceless descent and landing, most likely on a sidewalk in Northfield, Minnesota.
I was staying at Carleton College, attending a week-long training, and I’d been walking around Northfield. After I discovered the earring was missing, I walked up and down every city block that I’d walked on earlier and some others just in case. For hours, I retraced my steps over and over. I didn’t find my earring.
Using the internet, I found the phone number for the jewelry shop on Coronado Island. The owner answered the phone. I told her about my earrings, my favorite pair. I asked if she had another pair I could buy. She offered to make me a new earring at no charge. She had me send her the remaining earring so she could match the crystal and setting sizes.
A month later, my old earring arrived with its new mate.
I’ve never again worn them without their clear rubber backings. I still have both earrings.
I’ve never forgotten the kind jeweler, who must have also known the sadness of losing a cherished earring. I hope she’s still creating jewelry.
I’d like her to know that I still think of her kindness every time I wear the earrings.
I’m about to walk across the drawbridge in Charlevoix when I see a man and a woman standing along the Pine River Channel on the other side of the bridge. The pair are in their late 50s, maybe early 60s. He wears a fishing hat and clutches a fishing pole that’s arched over the water. He works to reel in a fish that fights to remain in the water. She wears a pastel-colored shirt and pair of shorts and clasps a fishing net that’s perpendicular to the water. She’s waiting to scoop up the fish once it has been reeled in, ending any chance it has of slipping back into the channel. They are a team.
I stop to watch the battle between man and woman and fish. In front of me, three young teenage girls have already stopped to watch. All of them wear their golden hair in braids. I walk forward a few steps so I’m even with them but keep my distance. I don’t want to break the spell. Their large smiles have pushed their cheeks into rose-colored apples and their eyes twinkle, telegraphing their joy. We all watch the man lift his pole and crank his reel. He’s playing with the fish, letting it wear itself out. We all watch the woman move the net closer to the water in anticipation, then watch her back away when the fish retreats.
The girls huddle together, like teenage girls do. Their hands are empty. The cellphones I expected to see in their palms, protrude from their pockets. Watching the fish action is better than Snapchat, TikTok, or Instagram. They’re immersed in this moment, no lenses between them and the man-woman-fish drama.
Suddenly the woman swoops the net into the water and pulls up the fish. The man bends down and unhooks it. As he slips his fingers through the gill and lifts the fish, the three girls applaud loudly and laugh joyfully. Unfortunately, the man and woman don’t hear the clapping because of the traffic noise and their position on the opposite side of the channel.
I cross the bridge and get a better look at the fish—it’s big, a keeper. The man and woman pack up their gear and their one-and-only, but good-sized fish. I know what he and the woman are having for dinner.
And I know what the three girls will talk about at dinner.
It was the last day of my second trip to Michigan since the pandemic started.
I wasn’t going to Charlevoix again because I’d already been there twice on Wednesday. I swear more people were walking or driving up and down Bridge Street than on the streets in Manhattan when my mom and I drove through there on a Friday afternoon in September 1986. (Seriously, this is almost not hyperbole.)
Bridge Street is aptly named. The Charlevoix Memorial Drawbridge spans the canal connecting Lake Charlevoix and Lake Michigan, and it opens and closes every half hour, backing up traffic for at least a couple dozen blocks.
Because it was my last day in Michigan, I decided to walk on the shores of Lake Michigan rather than hunt for parking spaces in Charlevoix, Petoskey, or Harbor Springs then weave in and out of pedestrians along the sidewalks. I’d done my shopping and didn’t need any more caramel corn, stationery, or books.
Between Petoskey and Charlevoix, I stopped at a couple of parks and hiked along Lake Michigan, taking pictures and getting my feet wet.
After I left the second park, I planned to return to my mom’s in Petoskey. But that meant crossing traffic that was heading west so I could go east. It would be clear one way, but never both ways at the same time. So, I headed west, planning to make a left-hand turn into a parking lot, then make a right-hand turn and head back to Petoskey.
Before I found a place to turn around, I was almost to Charlevoix. I decided to keep going.
Center of mural
I parked before the Charlevoix Memorial Drawbridge, my strategy to avoid the long line of cars waiting for the bridge to open and close every half hour.
I crossed the bridge on foot and walked to My Grandmother’s Table, a bakery, café, and coffee bar located just on the other side of the bridge. I’d thought about this small eatery when I’d made the decision to keep heading to Charlevoix. Along the inside wall of the café was a stunning mural, its color palate suggesting delicate confections and scrumptious food. If the desserts and food were only half as delectable as the mural, my money and time would be wisely spent.
Right side of mural
“I’m here for dessert,” I said to a man in a white chef’s coat, making an effort to speak to him and not to the mural to the right of me. At 2:30 in the afternoon, their dessert trays were mostly bare. A few cookies sat on two trays and one large brownie, the size of Rhode Island, sat on a third tray.
“This is the best brownie,” the man in the white chef’s coat said, pointing to the lone chocolate rectangle sitting on a white paper doily.
It was so big. “Can you cut it in half?” I asked. He looked perplexed. Maybe he hadn’t heard me because of the mask I was wearing. I asked again.
“Well—” he said, then stopped talking.
“I’d like to eat half today and the other half tomorrow.”
“Well—” he said again, struggling to find some words.
I thought, “How hard can it be to cut the brownie in half?” Halfway through that thought, I had a moment of clarity and added, “I want to buy the whole brownie. I’d just like it cut in half.”
“Oh, okay.” He smiled and put it on a plate. He’d thought I wanted to buy only half the brownie—silly man. He pointed to a space behind me. “You can cut it if you’d like. There are knives over there.”
I turned and had a moment of surrealism. I looked at a silverware caddy filled with utensils and straws. During the early days of the pandemic these caddies had been spirited away and hidden behind counters, so when I ordered takeout, I needed to ask for utensils or straws. Now, like indoor dinning, the caddies had reappeared. I grabbed a fork and a knife. I cut my brownie in half, and the chef wrapped a piece of plastic over my plate. Even though indoor dining was open, I walked outside and sat down in their outdoor eating area.
I enjoyed the best brownie I’ve ever eaten. I only ate half of it, so I could enjoy the other half the next morning as I drove back to Wisconsin.
I returned to the café to tell the man in the white chef’s coat that it was the best brownie. Again, I reminded myself to talk to the man, not the mural. I asked if I could take a picture of the mural on the wall. “Of course,” he said, and we both turned to look at it.
The German shepherd that made me do a double take
I aimed my phone at the mural, but stopped before clicking. A German shepherd lay on the black-and-white tiled floor. I moved my phone to look at him. The dog wasn’t real—it was part of the mural. But he looked so real, I thought, “If a patron dropped food on the floor, the dog would rise and gobble it up.” The dog was the only image on the whimsical mural that looked realistic. He was part of the painting, yet apart from the painting. He reminded me of myself during my trip in this pandemic—part of the world, yet apart from the world.
[The mural, 35 feet wide and 12 feet tall, was painted by Gary Markley, a local artist from Torch Lake, Michigan. He strived to recreate the painting as its original artist Anton Pieck (1895-1987) intended it. A Dutch artist, Pieck’s paintings have a Currier & Ives quaintness that depict 1800s European life. My Grandmother’s Table: Facebook Page. To see information about three charming, independently owned bookstores in Michigan, click on the name of each bookstore: Between the Covers in Harbor Springs, Round Lake Bookstore in Charlevoix, McLean and Eakin in Petoskey.]
Writing Near the Lake 